He found himself in front of a vaguely familiar park. The wind was blowing, but not hard. The leaves of the many trees were whispering to him to stop.
Taras moved into the park but did not use the path just beyond the bench. He walked into what seemed like total darkness. He stopped, almost fell, put a hand on a tree to balance himself. It took a long time for his eyes to adjust.
Taras reached up to pull his hat down and discovered that he had no hat. He knew several others who endlessly roamed the streets and had lost ears to frostbite. Taras touched his ears to see if they were still there.
“They are intact,” he told the darkness.
He tried to remember the name of the park he had entered. He could not. It would come to him.
He trudged on, his eyes now capable of seeing outlines and shadows. Trees, bushes, a fence, a man.
The man was in front of him. Taras could not judge how far away the man was. The man was not moving. Taras took a step to his left and began walking away from the man.
“Wait,” the man said.
Taras waited.
The man approached and said, “I did not think I would find anyone in the park this late.”
The man looked neither old nor young from what Taras could see in the dark.
Taras began walking again. The man kept pace with him.
“I often come to the park at night just to get out, sit on a bench, and drink a bottle of wine. Sometimes I find someone with whom I can share it. Do you like wine?”
“Do I look as if I would turn down wine?” asked Taras. “Where is a bench?”
“This way,” said the man, walking just a bit ahead of Taras on his left.
“I really do not feel like drinking wine tonight. Here, you take the bottle. I have brought some juice for me.”
“Please yourself,” Taras said, taking the bottle.
The cork was already halfway out. Taras pulled it the rest of the way out and dropped the cork. No matter. He had every expectation of drinking the entire bottle. It continued to be a very good day.
The stone bench was cold against his rear end even through two layers of pants.
“I am fifty-nine years old. I was born in Omsk. I was a dealer in expensive watches, a writer for a newspaper, a tire thief. I had a wife and two daughters. I have not seen them for a very long time.”
“You miss them,” the man said sympathetically.
“No,” said Taras, taking a long drink from the bottle. The wine was not bad. It was not vodka, but it would do.
Taras held out the bottle with little enthusiasm.
The young man declined, saying, “Maybe I will take it later.”
“Must I tell you more of my biography?”
“No,” said the man.
“My health history? I have but one tooth left. It will not last much longer. I am fond of it. I wiggle it a great deal with my finger. I shall miss it when it is gone. My heart functions adequately, as do my other organs, with the likely exception of my liver. My right arm does not rise above my waist. An accident when I was stealing tires in Omsk. . Is that enough for you?”
“I said I did not want to hear any more about your life.”
Taras shrugged his shoulders and stopped talking.
It was then that the young man lifted his hand from his jacket pocket and showed Taras a hammer.
“I am in Bitsevsky Park,” said Taras.
“You are.”
“And you are the Maniac?”
The man did not answer.
“Once, not many years ago, I was tall and strong and I would have taken that hammer from you and shoved the handle down your throat. Now I am shorter and weak. And I am drunk, but I will fight you.”
“You think you can beat me?”
“There is not a chance that I could, but I want to live.”
Taras pulled the coat around him. A cold wind had suddenly been brought to life to dance through him.
“You are very drunk,” the man confirmed.
“Well, I will still fight you and try to get that hammer from you. This is probably the last few minutes of my soul in this almost worthless body. Until my death this had been a very good day for me.”
Taras lunged toward the man, swinging the wine bottle at his head. He missed by at least two feet and landed facedown on the cold, wet grass. He thought about crawling away, but he knew that effort would be of no use. Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and managed to touch the watch.
Akardy Zelach lay on his bed in the living room. In the lone bedroom of the apartment he could hear his mother cough, a moist, rattling cough. She had gotten home from the hospital that morning. He was afraid, afraid of losing her, afraid of being alone. There was nothing he could do. He did not know if she was awake and he did not want to wake her at this hour to offer her tea or medicine.
She coughed again and again, and through the door he could hear her sitting up. He got out of his bed and went to her bedroom. He knocked gently.
“Yes, come in,” his mother said hoarsely.
Akardy entered.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked.
“Do we have any brandy left?” she asked.
“I think so.”
“Raspberry tea?”
“Yes.”
“Tea with a little brandy,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Anything else?”
“Are you tired, Akardy?”
“No,” he lied.
“You could perhaps read to me a little while.”
“Yes,” he said. “Tea with brandy and a book. Which book would you like?”
“I’ll get it. You make the tea. Make a cup for yourself. I’ll read the leaves.”
When he had finished making the tea, Akardy Zelach carefully brought it to his mother on a wooden tray. He had also made himself a cup of tea, but he had added no brandy to his.
Her eyes were closed, but when she sensed him in the room they opened. He placed the tray carefully on the table next to her bed.
“Thank you.”
She touched his cheek when he sat on the bed next to her.
“Don’t look so frightened. I’m going to be fine.”
He nodded and smiled, not knowing what to say. He had no gift for words and he knew it. This may have been the reason he was so drawn to those who could create words, poets, novelists, politicians, rock musicians, and rappers. He took the book she held out and he opened it to a place she had marked with a red feather, all that remained of a hat she had worn once almost thirty years ago.
Zelach read the poem by Anna Akhmatova she had marked.
